It Feels Better Biting Down
by I.D.Gr
Summary: (ch3) 'And you know how hard it is for a teenager to get adopted...' (Rated T ) A series of vignettes of the MTR world. Rating varies per chapter.
1. It Feels Better Biting Down

1995 - ** It Feels Better Biting Down**

_Where her story ended, his only began_

(Rated M)

She bit her lip. Blood trickled down her jaw but it was all the same to her. Hands and feet were numb. _Deep breaths, deep breaths._ A shiver ran through her spine. It twisted her guts in knots, whether from this ice-cold rain or her guilty conscience, she didn't know. Hair clung to her face and her pathetic rag of a blanket did nothing to ward off the wind chill. Her socks, even her underwear was all sodden. Still, she made sure to keep a steady pace as her hands clenched the soggy corners of a cardboard box.

She knew what had to be done and yet she stalled even more, as if the sun weren't about to rise in less than a few hours. This was all for the best, empty words really, but even at the slightest chance that they were true, they comforted her. Her jaw clenched and blood stained fabric. She looked up to the black sky amid the rain falling down around her. The water thinned the red stains on her face. It was pouring; she felt she was drowning, each drop hitting her like an arrow. Then she heard something.

Abruptly, she jerked her gaze over her shoulder. Probably some kids out late at night, maybe a cat, maybe nothing. She couldn't take that chance, he could still be following. She made this decision but what other choices were there really? What hope did it have if it stayed with her? She held the child once more, their heartbeats next to each other. A mother's instinct should tell her to keep the child, yet hers was doing just the opposite. What kind of mother was she anyway? _Inhale_. Just a vessel. _Exhale_. She lowered the baby back in the box. It was now or never, and never wasn't an option.

_8 months and 7 days ago_

Hands in blue rubber gloves carefully held a scalpel, gliding the blade across bulging skin. The sheen of metal interrupted by dark blotches, stains on crisp white fabric. The room was dim, illuminated by one white fluorescent bulb, it was silent but for the hum and beeps of the machines. They all knew their job, and if any of the nurses so much as whispered a question, they didn't deserve to be within a hundred-mile radius of the operating room. She would see to that personally.

_Such a pretty face. You remind me of someone… someone I lost._

She stopped. Set her tools down and looked up. 'Did you say something?'

The others paused, perplexed at the sudden interruption. 'No,' said one of them, arm cautiously outstretched to hand her a cotton ball with his thongs.

Must be the lights. Maybe they needed a bulb with a lower wattage. Sweat dripped down her forehead and she squinted her eyes, biting her lip. She'd always leave the OR with of a bit of her own blood as well as the patient's on her clothes. It was that one little quirk of hers that mystified her co-workers. Here was the world's youngest neurosurgeon; she could Nancy Drew her way through the human body with only a toothpick and a bobby pin like it were a maze on the back of a cereal box, but she couldn't control her damn overbite. She didn't know why that was, but it began since before she could talk. She had to keep her lip in check, as if it would run away with words she couldn't take back. No one is perfect.

_Once upon a time, there was a pretty, pretty girl._

Like many things, she kept this to herself.

_Pretty, pretty girl, playing doctor._

When the bulbs shut and the light boxes switched off and the x-rays filed away, she peeled the rubber from her hands.

_Have you seen her?_

Cotton balls dabbed the blood on her lip and away they'd go in the trash before she washed her hands. Some leftover blood thinned into the water and swirled down the sink.

_Once upon a time, there was a pretty, pretty girl who thought she could hide from me. Blood runs thicker than water._

'No. NO, NO, NOnonono'

A shriek so loud forced itself out of her lungs. Her denial had caught up to her, the signs were so obvious it was only a matter of time. At the sight of a single number on the HCG test she felt herself slipping into old habits. It was crystal clear, impossible to ignore and her heart exploded. Test tubes and glass shattered, tears flowed freely. Papers flew, a microscope fell, and a metal cart toppled over. It was his, it had to be his.

_Him—_she dare not say his name even to herself. He was the shadow lurking under her bed, and in the closet. _He_ was the one who followed her through the day and breathed goose bumps down her neck by night. He took without giving, hollowed her out until she was bone and blood. She had rebuilt her life from ashes, yet miles away he could still render her in tears.

She closed her eyes and saw an image of a figure growing larger from where it stood in her window. It was upon her—She gasped. She couldn't breathe. She steadied herself, leaning on a table only to slip and collapse to the floor. For hours she lay in a foetal position, finding comfort in the cold tiled floors.

_Why so glum? Such a pretty face shouldn't frown._

Her body was frozen and contorting. Suffocating. He still had a hold on her, dragging her by the hair back into darkness. Others came to calm her down and an intern accompanied her to a taxi. People out in the hall at least had the decency to pretend they hadn't seen their superior crying on the floor with drool over her blouse. The same woman, in fact, who spent hours every morning trying to tame her blonde frizzles into the tightest of buns. No strand was to be left loose. But right now she was in too much shock to think of hair.

_Come back home, pretty girl._

She had such a bright future, everyone said so, and for once she thought she might agree. After Harvard, she'd escaped with a new name and address and a degree. Essays and studies credited to her pseudonym, the very nature of her work broke records and she thought… She thought she might _have_ a future. Like dead tissue, she'd grow beyond the pain. But he wormed his way into her life through the cracks, like he always did. He found a way to destroy her.

She bit her lip.

She'd been given a few days off and a promise to discuss maternity leave upon her return. Once upon a time she might've wanted a child, one that felt like her own, with a person she could build a life with. It was a typical, unambitious, white picket fence fantasy, but it excited her almost more than a Nobel Prize. Watch what you wish for, so they say.

Maternity leave. Could she be a mother, really? To _his_ child? Though, she had to admit the poor thing was as much hers as it was his. That was what made this so difficult. A child brought into the shattered remains of her life. Such disturbing circumstances… It wasn't much of a promise for someone who wasn't even born yet. She'd considered abortion, and after performing ones on countless patients in similar situations, you'd think the answer was obvious.

For days she remained indecisive. She thought if she kept this up, maybe she'd wake one morning with a conclusion but all that happened was she'd open her eyes with a headache and notice a bottle of sherry next to an empty glass. People thought it excessive, but after five late nights in a row at the OR you might understand. Without thinking, she poured herself some and stopped as she brought the cup to her lips. Down it went into the sink, swirling its way down the drain. On the second day, she did the same, this time getting as far as letting it swim around her mouth and then spitting it back out before it left her tongue. On the third day, she threw the bottle out, dumping the contents into the toilet as well as all her cigarettes and some of her coffee.

_Once upon a time, there was a pretty, pretty girl… She liked to hide away with the grown-ups. What have you done with her?_

This wasn't her final decision, she'd assure herself as she left the grocery store with a cart full of orange juice. It was… a precaution. Her jaw clenched, teeth cutting her lip. She could always go back and do the right thing.

_You don't belong here, pretty girl. Come and be mine again._

She'd awoken again at four in the morning, hair in a tussle and wrinkles on only one side of her otherwise pristine bedding. It was the same nightmare; a shadow and voices obscuring a window until darkness overcame… For a doctor such as herself, days off were unheard of. Her world consisted only of the fluorescent lights in the OR, her bed, and everything in between. She was unaccustomed to wasting so much time. She sat up to see the deep blue of dawn shine through her window. The shadows of tree branches stretched across the linoleum floors. Her hand felt empty without a cigarette or at least a scalpel. She bit her lip.

_Look what you made me do._

Back at work was no different, but there at least, she had a purpose. She was sick of being alone with her thoughts, lazing on a couch in front of a coffee table filled with empty takeout. Waking up anywhere from four am to seven pm, so uncoordinated she'd stub her toe three times on the same table leg. She tried to ignore the fact that she had no friends, no family worth mentioning and _he_ certainly didn't count, and only people at work she spoke to often enough to consider acquaintances. And a pet cat that died last month.

No one was there to pull her hair back when she missed the toilet by mere inches. Her fingers wouldn't steady, more air was coming in than out. The smell of vomit mixed with carbon dioxide. She opened a window.

At the hospital, she was at home in her lab coat, hair once again in order surrounded by perfectly white tiled grids. Her mind, however, usually so lucid in the midst of an operation didn't return with the rest of her body. It was lost in a fog, distracted. Steel sharp focus diluted into clumsy forgetfulness and some of the students took notice. If she didn't make a decision soon she would have to go on maternity leave anyway.

Over the next few weeks she took tests, x-rays, and more tests. People thought the baby might come out blue after all this poking and prodding, but she insisted. She was waiting, watching for any little sign. The smallest hiccup or malady or deformation. Something that would confirm to her that this was wrong, that it was all wrong and she should go back.

_How dare you._

She lay on down with her blouse unbuttoned and cold gel on her skin for the ultrasound. She was still biting her lip.

'I—,' said a nurse, Carla, clearly unable to hide her uneasiness. It wasn't her right to be uneasy. In a perfect world, one would never have to be so intimate with someone like Carla. 'I hope you don't think me rude but,' she paused to swallow, 'I was wondering about the father—

'I have no father.'

'I, um, I meant about the baby's father.'

'He's unable to be a part of this.' The same words she'd parroted for days. Curtly changing the subject, she didn't want this to be a complete waste of time. 'I don't want to know the gender. I just–is there anything wrong with it?'

Carla had her mouth open with a response, but she thought better than to say anything. She wheeled her chair over to the charts. 'Well, _they_ are perfectly healthy. Nothing wrong.' She forced a smile.

'You're certain? My ankles feel a bit swollen, that's a sign of toxaemia.'

'I am certain and no,' said Carla making a show of examining her ankles, 'It seems fine. We've already gone through this and several urine tests. Your child is going to be perfectly healthy, no signs of infection or deformation or whatever's worrying you. Everything is as it should be.' She leaned in closer, as if to make this more intimate, but it only made it clear that the nurse took too many breath mints. 'Listen, I've been where you are, or, at least in a similar situation. Being a new mother is scary and naturally you're worried, but sometimes the best of blessings come at the worst of times. This isn't Lucifer's child over here and you're no Rosemary. _It's ok._'

Carla thought she was being comforting. She sounded like a pamphlet.

She supposed that was it. All the tests came back negative and to the outside world there was no reasonable reason for a mother to-be to turn back now. Unless you had a conscience… At the second trimester, she packed a suitcase and contacted a midwife two towns over. If she was going to follow through, she needed to be away from it all, her co-workers, her neighbours, scholars and students alike. All those people whispering with brief glances to her stomach, hidden behind a veil of etiquette. More importantly it was a safe place away from him, for however long it took him to find her once again. She didn't know why she didn't call the police. It would certainly be the more sensible option with a "baby on board". She didn't trust herself enough.

They say that the pain of labour disappears at the sight of your new-born. She could not disagree more. Her little embryo was impatient, it became a pre-term birth and she was admitted to the Midtown Manhattan Hospital. So much for the midwife.

All hospitals were the same, they each had the same reception with the same carpeted floors and uncomfortable chairs and IV sacs and white tiles, but it was a foreign hospital nonetheless. It wasn't _her_ hospital.

She didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to know its gender or give it a name. She didn't even stop calling it "it". This baby shouldn't have happened in the first place, why make everything more difficult with sentimentality.

Nails dug into her palm, and teeth into her lip as she was wheeled over to a bed. She was unusually tense for someone who just stepped out of the OR, so to speak, under heavy medication. The doctor wanted to keep her longer than the typical three days, charts and tests indicated an abnormally weak immune system. She acquiesced knowing well that regardless of her health, she would leave the second the baby could survive outside its incubator.

For the first time in days, she dared look at the infant's face. In a dingy, cool motel room, she could see the small form of a baby wrapped in rags where she'd placed it on the bed. The perfect picture of innocence. Maybe that was why she did it. Just to see if something pure and new could come out of this mess. She could prove to the world that she had done something selfless. She turned to the baby, face so round and smooth, full of baby fat and with a small tuft of blonde hair. It had her hair but not the brown of her eyes. The baby's eyes were electric blue irises. So expressive, so vivid. Yet they reminded her of him. Him and the bruises he gifted her with, the blue that once painted her arms and legs.

Her eyes went wide, her throat dry and blood on her teeth. Slowly she leaned closer to the baby and whispered in a low voice, 'You. You and he, you have the same eyes. Do you know that?' She paused as if waiting for a response. She thought she heard a gurgle, but maybe it was her imagination.

She remembered the night _he_ came to her, with a chill this cold and eyes this blue. Less than nine months ago, or so she would assume, at her apartment. She'd arrived late in the evening to an open window and blue irises that made her freeze.

'I'm so sorry it has to be this way,' she said with her back to the baby at the end of the bed. She looked ahead to the window, deep in thought.

His shadow obscured most of the window's frame. She jumped, her bottle of cherry, the one that was loyally set on the her side-table like it always was, shattered to the floor. Quickly she grabbed the handle to point the jagged shards to the shadow of a man in her window. But he was trapping her with words no weapon could ward off.

_Put that down, girl_. He looked to her makeshift weapon, with the jerk of his hand had her surrounded in his arms. _Once upon a time there was a pretty, pretty face._ _Once upon a time I'd loved a pretty girl, one upon a time I'd put a smile on her pretty lips, so sweet. And what did she do in return?_

His breath was on her neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She could feel his grip on her tightening. She wanted more than anything to tell him to stop, to cry out for help. Her throat ran dry.

_…she ran away._

'But you'll find a home,' she turned her head over her shoulder. 'A real one, without me. And without him.' The baby was asleep in a soft nest of blankets.

He ran a finger along her cheek… cold and slender. Until she realised it wasn't a finger. It was too late now, he'd pressed down on the syringe into her neck. She knew it didn't take long for the effects of anaesthetics to trigger. She swallowed.

_Such a pretty, pretty face. But nothing in your head._

'You'll find happiness.'

Her vision blurred as he pushed her towards the bed. Her hearing was more than intact, it seemed amplified. His words echoed in her ears, and gave her a headache with each syllable.

_Pretty, pretty hair… _His weight was pressing her on the bedsheets, her face almost suffocating under his pressure. _…you never could tame it._

'One day. You'll see,' she told the baby.

_You don't belong here, with all these sticky chemicals._ His fingers, cold as ice fiddled with buttons on the back of her blouse. _Such a pretty, pretty girl is afraid, she can't hide where she doesn't belong. But don't worry, _he said_, I've come to take you home._

Tears welled in her eyes, fists bunched blankets. She forced her eyes open to look at the motel window. An exhale of relief and she relaxed her muscles. The street across was quiet, dark, and best of all, miles away from her apartment. She could hear a distant ring of cars.

'You'll be happier without me, Baby.'

The moon was shining, partially obscured by dark clouds, but the sun's reflection managed to creep through. The 'O' of the blinking motel sign went out and she turned over on the bed before tucking the child goodnight.

'It's for the best.'

She wanted to leave a note, maybe a cheque, anything more than a raggedy old blue blanket in a soggy box. But she couldn't, the furthest this baby was from her, and _him,_ the better.

She looked down to the little squirming infant that was in her arms just moments before, now looking up at her from the box. Those eyes, they might've been his eyes but it certainly wasn't his face. Round with baby fat, rosy cheeks, little blonde strands curling out and an eagerness that only came with youth.

It was then that she realised how badly she wanted to keep the child. To raise it as her own, to add laughter and smiles to her apartment where crayon drawings and glitter and Mother's Day cards and toys would litter the floors. She wanted to hear the first words, the report cards and the bedtime stories. She wanted to be the one to say, 'Oh they grow up so fast!' and smother it with hugs and kisses into adulthood, even on its wedding day. She wanted to see it grow up. She wanted something normal, something permanent and _happy_. To feel the accomplishment of raising a life, not just saving one with test tubes and CT scans. She needed another life to complete her. But what could she offer in return? Food. College tuition came easy. A place to stay while your mother works herself to sleep. Stability. A perfect trail for him to follow…

No. She did not deserve this baby just as it did not deserve her. While _he_ certainly was no father, neither was she a mother. The child needed a better life. Breaking this cycle of misfortune was only possible without her.

She took one last look at the brick building. The 6th Street Orphanage, read the plaque at the front door. It was no Ritz but likely it was a better home than she could ever offer. If she looked closely, out on the sidewalk, and peeking through from the backyard, was a scattering of tattered old toys that weren't put away. Yes, she thought, a child could be happy here.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she walked down the steps into the sidewalk. Her shoulders hunched, and she curled her blanket over her. Arms now empty, she wandered the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind. Her gut wrenched, and yet it felt hollow. She dared not cry. What right did she have when she wasn't the one abandoned in the cold rain? Drops clung to the edge of her eyelashes. She blinked. It's for the best. It was all for the best.

Goodbye, little one.

Hours later, she kept on, aimlessly putting one foot in front of the other until she found herself in a park. She was far enough from the orphanage by now. Let him find me, she thought. I'm tired of running. He can't have what he wants. Not anymore.

Her feat was so small, but she felt an immaculate weight lift off her shoulders. Flying life a feather, she collapsed in soft green hills. The dirt, better than her feet, could carry her. A morning chill kissed her cheeks while she allowed herself to sleep. The sky was fading to a soft blue as the sun made its way to the horizon. The rain had abated. It was over. She would never see her baby again. She exhaled, lying in the grass, waiting for a tomorrow that would never come.

Title / fic partially inspired by Lorde's _Biting Down _and lyrics from I Monster's_ I Spider_

**A/N **

This chapter was a little dark, a little weird and a little devoid of any Robinsons but hopefully you enjoyed it. Even if you didn't, criticism is always appreciated.

(Edit: At this point, after about ten re-writes, two major edits and three re-uploads, I *think* I'm done. Hope I haven't annoyed anyone with my merciless perfectionism _)

Review?


	2. Nothing to Show But My Name

**Nothing to Show But My Name**

_

_None of them would recognise me now_. Cornelius ponders what his life has come to.

Rated K

**A/N 1** Hey folks, so a lot happened between chapters one and two. Namely, I'm going to try to be less of a perfectionist and post this chapter I'd written in one draft over a year ago. To this day, I'm still not sure it reads quite right, but bad work is better than no work, and that is essentially the Robinson philosophy isn't it?

_

I passed by that little brick building almost everyday. Once, while sitting on the couch after an afternoon of helping my girlfriend move into her apartment, one of its broken windows visible across the street. Sometimes, walking to school. Getting a few spare parts from Jake's Emporium. Sitting on the roof, waiting for someone, something, anything to change. Driving my son to school, chasing after my nephew's paint-stained footprints on the sidewalk, taking a walk with my parents and having a picnic in the park a few streets over, running around drenched in the rain, drunk on something other than beer. All within a few feet of this building.

I wondered more than once what she thought of it. Likely when she first came, it was more impressive. Windows intact, bricks in order and a few stray toys in the backyard. Did she read the placard? Was it shimmering with newness back then or was it already beginning to rust with age? I take a closer look, realising I never read the placard myself. Another piece of history.

Was it the lesser of two evils? Was it the best she could do or was it a way to avoid something? I notice some newspapers getting caught in the wind, flying around across the grass. I pick it up and put it in the recycling. I find that I don't care. She's past the point of forgiveness, past the point of a grudge. She's nobody but another stranger in the dark recesses of my brain. She is my past.

I go down the same five concrete steps one last time and start walking to the intersection between 6th and 7th street. I've walked this road before, matching Captain Time Travel backpack and rusty tin lunchbox in hand. Sometimes I had my red cart with me, lugging either a bright idea to school or a heavy failure back home. None of them would recognise me now. Not her, nor my teachers, and classmates and bullies, the couples and other orphans, and the Jack Russell terrier that would harass the mailman is probably dead by now. They wouldn't know who I was.

It's an empty street, but I, obedient as ever, waited for the light to change. They would look around for that insecure little kid, the one that triggered Mr. Harrington's allergy with a PB and J explosion, the one that didn't like sports and didn't want to do anything at lunch hour but study algebra. The one who couldn't laugh at himself.

Still walking, I have my hands in my pockets as I take the steps down to the subway. They would look for a sad miserable life to make themselves feel better, but they wouldn't find it. I swap change for a token at the booth and pass through the turnstiles. I stand next to a mother and baby in a stroller. It's crowded but not too crowded. If they saw me would they say sorry? Would they notice? Would they care? Do I care? No.

The metro breezes by, I close my eyes. My hair wisps around like a tiny cornfield. The lights turn green and the mechanism on the doors makes them all open at once. Crowds get out and others go in. Most people don't notice I'm here, but out of my periphery, I see some do a double-take. The doors close with me on the other side.

I sit down while others are standing. They have grocery bags or headphones on. Some of them are reading. I look at my reflection in the window. No, what they would find is a stranger. Cornelius Robinson. A name they'd hear on the radio. Maybe he invented the radio they were listening to, maybe he just won the Nobel prize, maybe he graduated college before you did, maybe he screwed up majorly and Neil deGrasse Tyson and Bill Nye are tweeting about it.

Meanwhile he's probably laughing about it. Probably singed his eyebrows twice in the same month. Maybe he's helping his parents unload the groceries. He could be hyperventilating over his lack of sleep. Or skipping class with his time-trotting son. He probably dropped a piece of chalk after helping a student with the quadratic formula. Ketchup could be sprayed across his mother's dress at the barbecue. He'd be kissing his best friend for the last time. Juggling a bunch of toddler's toys with loose sheets of a contract not yet signed and an angry lawyer on the other line. Grinning as his wife tries to imitate a Madonna music video at the grocery store. His nerves sparking a panic behind the curtain at a press conference. He'd be ordering a cone with two scoops for his niece.

He could be playing baseball alone. He might be a "mad scientist" giving candy to kids who celebrated halloween much more than he ever did. He could be predicting a punishment for his son twenty-five years beforehand. Maybe he's kissed her cheek but she grabs him to kiss his lips instead. In front of her brother. Maybe he's taking the puppet away from one uncle or changing the channel for the other. He's punching his bother-in-law after seeing yellow bug, he's reassuring his son there isn't a monster in the closet, he's being nostalgic with his best friend. He's up at four am thinking of things he shouldn't be thinking about. He's found the last word in his wife's crossword. He's smiling, crying, celebrating something very far away.

But for all they know this never happened. All they know is a name.

Back out in the fresh air, I walk the stairs to a sidewalk. They would search for Lewis and what they would find instead is me. I walk for a few minutes on the outskirts of the noisy crowds to the quiet fields. Ahead of me is a steep hill of rich grass. The air is fresh and the plants are green. It's mid spring and the snow is melted, only a few puddles remain. I'm almost home, and I look up to see a white house atop the knoll in the distance. Friendly faces wave back.

This is nice.

_

**A/N 2**

Fic / title inspo: Clay by HANA (predictably, another song-inspired fic)

So there she is. A lil' shortie (by my standards). I honestly think I should expand my style beyond this sort of "stream of consciousness" format, so I might try something different next time.

Comments/criticisms welcomed and appreciated! :)

*note: by "kissing his best friend" I mean someone who isn't Wilbur, in case that's something you're curious about…


	3. The Roof Pt I: Oliver

'And _you_ know how hard it is for a teenager to get adopted...'

Rated T+ (This one might run on the sensitive side for some.)

2003

He sat at the steps that afternoon like he always did. The day was ending, the Earth's axis titled just so at this hour to reflect the prettiest orange hues from the sun. It was Lewis' favourite time of day, the after-school hours when Oliver would get home.

'Lewis, get back inside.' Mildred leaned out the door with an annoyed look on her face.

'But I'm waiting for Oliver. He said he'd bring me something from the junkyard.'

'Well, get in line. I'm waiting for him too. One of his teachers just called.'

'Is he in trouble?'

'He's... Lewis just get in and help set the table.'

'But—'

'Now, mister.'

'Alright fine...'

Lewis shuffled inside, walked past the two volunteers at the kitchen entrance and grabbed a handful of utensils. He made his way around the table, setting on each place a knife and fork. 'Table's set!' he yelled.

Mildred still standing by the doorway, was looking out to the street as she said: 'Good now go watch TV 'till dinner's ready.'

'Why can't I just wait outside?'

'Because I told you so.'

'But TV's sooo boring! Aiden hogs the remote and he only ever wants to watch the Antiques' Road Show.'

'Mmmhmm...'

'Fiiiiine.' Lewis crossed back over into the living room, prepared to plop himself on the couch when he noticed Rose cutting vegetables on the kitchen counter. He sat at the stool in front of her.

She looked up from the cutting board to greet him, 'What's up little man?'

'Mildred won't let me wait for Oliver outside.'

'Well dinner's almost ready.'

'Yeah I know, I set the table. Sort of. What're we having?'

'Margaret's famous chicken noodle soup... That she bought at the store. Here, can you put the peas on the table?'

Behind Rose, Margaret was by the stove, she waved to him. He waved back. She was a nice enough old lady, but Lewis tended to like the younger volunteers better. They didn't yell as much when he took stuff apart and were more likely to answer his questions.

Especially Rose. She was Lewis' favourite volunteer so far because she'd take the kids out on field trips to the zoo and the ice cream place. She once spent a whole day with Lewis looking at a warehouse sale on car parts that he couldn't afford.

The meagre bowl of microwaved peas set on the table, Lewis sat back down at the counter. 'Hey Rose?'

'Yeah?' she said sliding the vegetables off the board with the knife and into a pot.

'D'you know what's up with Oliver? All he ever does now is mope around his room playing loud music.'

She filled the pot over the sink and placed it over the hot stovetop. 'I guess he's just been in a bad mood lately.'

'Yeah but it's not lately, it's all the time. I counted 78 days in total he's stayed in bed until three a.m. this last year, sometimes on weekdays. And then even on days where he wakes before three, he's never home before seven. And he's late today.'

Rinsing the knife and cutting board in the sink, she said,'You kept track of all that? Wow.'

'Is he ok? He's missed a lot of school. Is that legal? He's not dying or anything?'

'You really care about him, don't you?'

'Yeah. He's my friend. Plus he's the oldest, coolest one here.'

She turned off the sink, set down the dishes and leaned in closer to Lewis.

'That's just the thing. He's the oldest here and he's almost turning eighteen.'

'So? Isn't that a good thing? He'll be able to vote next year.'

'Lewis. If I tell you what's wrong, you have to promise not to tell anyone or make a big deal.'

'I was right, he is sick! Is it terminal? Is it in his bones 'cause I've noticed his posture's a little funny.'

'No,' she chuckled, 'he's not dying and nothing's wrong with his bones.'

'What then?'

'In a few weeks, he'll become a legal adult, which means the orphanage can't take care of him anymore.'

'What?'

'He has to leave.'

'They're kicking him out?'

'He'll be set up with other arrangements. But he can't stay here.'

'That's not fair. They let him stay when he was seventeen. What makes eighteen so special?'

'It's complicated,' said Rose, suddenly interrupted before she could continue.

'Alright, gang. Soup's on!' yelled Margaret bringing a big pot over to the table with mittened hands. In a softer voice she mumbled, 'Golly, I've always wanted to say that and mean it.'

'We'll talk later, ok Lewis?' said Rose. 'Ok?' she said again to make sure Lewis was listening.

'Ok.'

Oliver only arrived home hours later, after the sun had set. Lewis made sure to wait for him at the bottom of the stairwell so that he'd be the first thing Oliver saw when he came through the door.

It took a while though, almost more patience than Lewis could handle. But he was able to distract himself long enough with the Rubik's cube Rose had gifted him on his birthday. He'd almost figured out the algorithm when the door creaked open.

'Oliver!' Lewis ran up to him for a hug.

'Oof-' startled, Oliver almost pulled away but tentatively returned the hug before peeling Lewis off his legs. 'Hey buddy!'

'Didja get something from the junkyard?'

'The what now?'

'Lewis says you promised to bring him something,' said Mildred now leaning against the stairwell railing.

'Oh, uh, did I? I'm sorry, buddy. Must've forgotten. Tomorrow, though.'

Lewis shrugged. 'That's okay. What'd you do today? Did you learn anything cool?'

'Actually,' interrupted Mildred, speaking to Oliver, 'I need to talk to you. I'm sorry Lewis, I'm gonna borrow him for a bit. Why don't you watch TV with the others?'

'Aww.' TV, it was always TV when no one knew how to occupy the orphans.

Lewis had other plans though.

He snuck down the hall and found the closed interview room where Mildred and Oliver had gone to talk. He crouched down to inspect the crack under the door. This building was so old nothing fit perfectly together. The gap was big enough to slide a small plastic tube underneath for Lewis to hear the low voices within.

'Where were you? It took me days to set up those interviews,' said Mildred's familiar voice, 'I'll never be able to get those couples to set foot in here again.'

'So they hate me even when they haven't met me.'

'That is not true and you know it. You can't think like that.'

'I'll think whatever I want, you're throwing me out in two weeks anyway.'

'Jesse, your new social worker—,' she said trying to change the subject, '—you remember?'

'Yes, I remember _Jesse_, my _new_ _social worker,_' spat Oliver.

'Don't take that tone with me. You _will_ go to school, you _will_ go to your interviews and all your appointments. It's time to grow up.'

Mildred continued, in a softer voice, she said, 'Jesse says he can apply you for welfare until you get a job. And with your grades, you really should start thinking about summer school. Maybe even a GED.'

'Yippee,' he deadpanned.

'Oliver...' she sighed, 'You want to talk?'

'No.'

'Talking helps. You can't hide your feelings in sarcasm forever. I know this is hard, your situation, it's—'

Oliver interrupted her, 'My screwed-up parents would rather dig themselves into an early grave than be with me and I feel like crap about it all the time, is that what you wanna hear?' The room fell silent. 'That's what I thought.'

Sensing a conclusion to their conversation, Lewis quickly yanked the tube out and took a few steps back. Oliver burst the door open. He marched down the hall and up the same stairs he took to the roof almost everyday.

'Oliver!' Mildred call out, but it was no use. She sighed and went to walk back into the living room but stopped at the sight of Lewis with his tube.

Lewis jerked upright and hid the tube behind his back. 'Hi Mildred!'

'How much did you hear?'

'Hear what?'

'Lewis, you do not repeat _anything_ that was said just now to _anyone_. Got it?'

'Yes ma'am. I'll, uh, I'll go watch TV now.' He turned to go to the couch but hesitated. 'Hey Mildred?'

'Mm?'

'About what Oliver said, was any of it true? Like, he wasn't joking or being hyperbolic, right?'

'He's in a bad place right now, but that's not something you've got to worry about.'

'But it's true, isn't it?' Her silence was all Lewis needed in answer.

Careful not to spill any soup on his way up, Lewis walked the steps very slowly. The door at the top of the stairwell was ajar, he pushed through with his elbow.

'Hey, so, you missed supper.' Lewis walked over to place the soup on a nearby crate where Oliver had his feet propped up.

'Thanks. M'not really hungry though.'

'Ok.' Lewis sat down next to where Oliver lay on his back, his feet still on the crate. The asphalt pebbles were uncomfortable to sit on, though when he rested his head next to Oliver, he could see the inconvenience was worth it. The view up here was one of the best, if not the best, in Lewis' short lifetime. The night was a clear blue with twinkles of city lights and nearby stars. The train rattled by along the tracks, the windows so close to the orphanage he could almost wave to the passengers within. They stayed in companionable silence until Lewis asked, 'Why d'you always come up here?'

'It's quiet, fresh air, it's roomy, away from everybody else.'

'You mean you don't like being around the other kids?' Lewis sat up, propping himself on his elbows.

'Sometimes. I don't hate them, it just gets to be a little much, you know?'

'Oh. Okay. Did you want me to leave you alone?'

'Nah, you're cool.'

He pondered that for a moment as he laid back down. Oliver the coolest kid ever, or at least at the orphanage, thought Lewis was cool. Everybody else saw him as a dork or a loser or, in Mildred's case, a pitiable rascal who dismantled every appliance in the building. But cool was never a word anyone ever thought to describe Lewis.

He did know that Oliver meant it metaphorically but it was still impressive to Lewis that he got to hang out with a kid like Oliver at all. Tag along on outings, hang out at home or at an after school activity. Lewis didn't have many friends nor did he really care that much about what people thought of him, but truthfully it was a comfort knowing Oliver enjoyed his company.

'Yeah, bud,' said Oliver, 'sorry again about the scrapyard. I totally blanked. Brain fart, I guess. But I got my physics book if you wanna look at it.' He gestured to his book bag, propped on the other side of the crate.

Lewis sat up and leaned over to fetch it. Cross-legged, he flipped though its pages, full-colour photographs, charts and test questions. It wasn't vintage, it was published as recently as two years ago. 'Cool! Hey this one has an updated atomic diagram!'

'You're such a weirdo.'

Lewis smiled and put the book aside, 'So what d'you do today?'

'Not much. Skated with some friends. Dine and dashed at the burger place. You know the one with the hairy guy in the kitchen?' Lewis nodded. 'Boy, I swear his hairs were flying as he tried to chase us. Then I got to school late and the teacher thought I cheated on my test. Then I had detention. Which I skipped. Adults yell way too much.'

'You skipped school?'

'Well, I was there for the history midterm and the first half of French. But then Ms Ghall went on about verb conjugation so, yeah,' he shrugged.

'But why? You're so lucky. In high school, they actually teach you things. In elementary, they just baby you.'

'You'll understand when you're older, Lew. School sucks.'

'Everyone says I could skip even further than fourth right to ninth grade but Mildred doesn't want me to.'

'Why not?'

'She says I'm too young. That I couldn't handle it. But I could!'

'Don't worry, little buddy. You're not missing out, high school's just a nickname for a prison where they chain kids to desks and make 'em do sh— er, _stuff_, they don't wanna do. I'd kill to go back to fourth grade.'

'You have a funny way of saying things.'

Another train raced by, causing a ripple of vibrations as the steel clanked against the tracks. The headlights grew brighter until they were nearly as blinding as a midday's sun, then shrunk into the distance, leaving them both in the quiet darkness once again.

'Lewie... you ever wonder why we're even here?' said Oliver standing up.

'Like on Earth?'

'No, here, at the orphanage. What's the point of it all, the interviews, the photos, the application letters, the meet 'n' greet picnics, the social workers?' He paced around the asphalt, looking out towards the moon.

'So we can find a family.'

'Yeah that's what they say. Find a family, live in a house, be happy. But you know the real reason?' Lewis shook his head. 'It's because no one wants us.'

'Oliver, I know you've had a few bad interviews, everyone does. I turned a guy's hair blue in my last one. But you can't give up.'

'Thanks. But it's useless. My time's up.'

'Is this about the eighteen thing? Because I'm sure you could get adopted before your birthday. You still have two and a half weeks.'

'I can't do it anymore though. I just can't. I've been trying to get adopted since I was six. And you know what that got me? Zilch. Nada. Zero.' He stopped for a moment and went over to stand on the roof's edge overlooking the alleyway between the orphanage and Alfredo's Pizza.

'You'll see, in a few years,' he continued, looking away from Lewis, 'all those cutesy "adopt me" letters will get old. Not to mention couples only ever want babies. Babies that look like them so they can lie to everyone about us being adopted. I'm telling you: no one wants us. We're here because our birth parents couldn't stand us. And no one else wants a reject.'

And then, Oliver did the unexpected. He took a step forward over the edge.

'Oliver!' Lewis ran over to peer down, expecting bloody pulp on the cement. Instead, Oliver and his perfectly intact limbs dangled outside the open dumpster he'd landed on. He was swearing from below on his bed of garbage. Lewis called out to him, 'You okay?'

'I think I broke something... Owww...'

_No duh, _thought Lewis, but said aloud, 'I'll go get Mildred!'

The clean off-white tones of the hospital seemed to fade even more behind the vibrant cards and "get well soon" giftshop balloons decorating the room.

'What where you _thinking_!?' cried Mildred at Oliver's bedside.

'Oh, gee,' said Oliver, as agitated as one could be while a myriad of their limbs and neck were incased in casts. 'Well, first I thought, "What a great bowl of canned soup for the fourth day in a row, thanks Margaret!" And then I thought, "Wow! Tonight's weather is perfect to lie in a dumpster!" What did you _think_ I was doing?'

'But in front of Lewis? He's eight, you could've scarred him for life!'

'I'm fine,' said Lewis, unheard.

'Oh please, he's tougher than he looks! I was two years younger than him when Mom bit the dust. Why don't you just let him take the frigging SATs? Maybe then he won't have to completely suffer like the rest of us!'

'No, I'm fine really,' said Lewis feeling perfectly healthy as they talked over him.

Mildred and Oliver continued to bicker until the doctor interrupted to explain Oliver's grocery list of injuries. Afterward, Lewis and Mildred were ushered out as the psychiatrist came in, then left as Jesse entered, who, too, left with the arrival of Oliver's skater buddies on wheelie shoes. Lewis sat in the waiting room skimming the medical journals. He would sometimes pause and look up, watching the teens swerve around the tiles. He always wanted wheelie shoes.

The other orphans who came to visit Oliver hung around too, either playing with each other or fiddling with the loose ends of their clothes. Mildred was pacing in circles, yelling into her cellphone at the insurance company. She sat down with clenched fists. 'Damn it!' One of the full-timers at the orphanage sat next to her and they began to speak in whispers.

Lewis' gaze wandered to the other people in the waiting room. Not many stood around in large aimless groups like they did, most were here to worry over a family member coming in and out of surgery, awaiting to see if their mother or uncle or second cousin twice removed would get their new kidney. Couples cried on each other's shoulders as doctors stood by, a solemn look on their faces, surgical masks dangling from their necks. Kids ran around the play area, eagerly showing their new discoveries about the toy section to their parents who'd humour them with a smile or a pinch of the cheek. Lewis had never before felt more alone than he did sitting by himself with his surgical magazines. Of course he was worried about Oliver, but for once Lewis wondered if anybody would ever worry about _him _the way these families did, gathering together in tragedy or elation.

Lewis had no family.

The thought struck him like it never had before. He was always a quiet kid with too much sense to whine or to cry. He kept his head down and ploughed through his teachers' excuses for a challenging assignment, meanwhile tinkering away at a new research project or a broken motherboard. He kept busy and he didn't much talk to anyone outside the orphanage. But what would come after? When he'd turn eighteen, who could he talk to? Could a person really a spend a life shut in a residency, examining old motors and living as a hermit on welfare?

All these people, they lived together and ate together, they went on vacations together, picnics, outings, thanksgiving dinners. What was thanksgiving to an orphan anyway? Just a spoilt turkey donated to them by a middle-class family who, for one day a year, pitied the "less fortunate". Lewis had nowhere to bring his laundry when he would come home from college. He'd never once been in a car driven by people who cared about his well-being because it wasn't their job. Outside the orphanage, Lewis had nothing.

A little girl in a wheelchair rolled by, accompanied by a small cluster of pale blue-robed doctors. They stopped and suddenly the girl hopped out, and skipped over to the woman seated across from Lewis.

'Mom! Mom! Look what I can do!'

The woman, her eyes swimming in a bubble of tears, held her hand up to her mouth. 'I can't believe it! You're walking!' The girl ran into her mother's arms, the two of them locked in an embrace for what felt to Lewis like an eternity. 'Come here sweet baby girl...'

Watching the scene from where he sat, Lewis' stomach went in knots. He looked around and found only a distraction in the surgical monthlies, opened up a random page to an article about a family of cancer survivors. He slammed the magazine shut and occupied himself with counting the ceiling tiles as he waited for news on Oliver.

_We're here because our birth parents couldn't stand us. _

Lewis never spoke to Oliver again. The hospital agreed to wave the surgery fees, all things considered. When Oliver was finally well enough to leave the hospital, he was moved into a residency program, speaking mostly to his friends or his social workers. It was safe to assume that within a few years, he'd find a steady job, live on his own, and be off to college.

Lewis, meanwhile, holed himself up in his room with his homework the moment he came home from school. He had no one to talk to, really. Mildred was always busy, the other orphans too preoccupied with some TV trend or other, and Rose had left, her volunteer credits done with, she was off to university.

Lewis stared back at his own handwriting, formulas and diagrams strewn all over his desk. His new idea was called "the automatic trampoline". Ideally, in every day circumstances, it would disguise itself as a solid surface, stable enough to withstand the weight of furniture, buildings, vehicles, pedestrians, etc. But when struck with enough sudden force, it would bounce back like a trampoline and absorb all the impact. A natural material able transition from solid to something with enough elasticity was so rare Lewis would have to resort to making it artificially. He'd asked the science teacher, but she only smiled dismissively, 'You're an imaginative little sport, ain't'cha?'

He heard a knock on his door and thoughts returned to his room. Mildred leaned her head in, 'Supper's almost ready.'

'Ok,' he said not looking up from his papers.

Mildred opened the door wide enough for her to slide in and shut it behind her with a soft click. She walked up Lewis' desk and peered over his shoulder. 'Is this what you've been missing lunch to work on?'

Lewis said nothing. Mildred examined a sheet of diagrams while he solved equations in his head. Despite his immature drawing skills, Mildred could tell Lewis could combine his imagination and innovation to see horizons far beyond anyone else she'd ever known.

'Lewis? Lewis I think we need to talk, put that pencil down.'

'What?'

'Are you ok? Since the incident?'

'Yeah. Why wouldn't I be? I'm not scarred for life if that's what you're worried about.'

'You don't find that you're a little sad now that Oliver's left?'

'I guess, but it's fine, really. Oliver was always going to leave one way or another.' Lewis' eyes suddenly glazed over the way they did when he started doing math in mid air, his hands twitched as if to count all the imaginary variables.

Mildred went to grab his hands in hers and looked him in the eye. 'I know it must be hard for you. Seeing so many people come and go, having to... Present yourself to so many couples. If I could do anything to change that, I would. Given what's happened, just know, that it's ok to be sad. It's ok to be angry.'

'Mildred, I'm fine!'

'Don't say you're fine, I know you aren't. Now, you're not always as transparent as other kids your age, but before Oliver left, you never skipped meals like this or kept yourself hidden in your room, calculating God knows what.'

Lewis' gaze was now locked on hers. He stayed quiet as Mildred stared back, searching for something she couldn't find. Mildred went on, 'If you ever do want to talk, I'll always be here for you. And, it doesn't even have to be me if you don't want, Karen, your social worker, she's there for that kind of thing too.'

Slowly, Mildred let go of his hands and stood up, waiting for an answer. After a moment's reflection, Lewis finally said, 'Thanks. But I don't need any therapy or anything. I'll be down for dinner.'

'Ok. But, if you ever do, just tell me?'

Wordlessly Lewis turned back to his papers and Mildred walked out into the hall. When he heard her make her walk down the stairwell, he set his pencil down. He sank into his chair, uncomfortable as it was, and wondered what Oliver was doing at this very moment. Would he ever remember Lewis? Or was Lewis just an annoying kid who shadowed his every move?

Looking up at his bookshelf he reached for something that caught his eye. It was Oliver's physics book, he left it behind. On the inside cover was a white sticker with "# 36 Oliver Wilson" labelled in formal ballpoint writing. His eyes travelled down the page to the lower right-hand corner that was folded over to reveal a message. This was written in pencil, in decidedly messier writing. Oliver's script.

_'Lewie, Mildred probably wants to kill me now. I'm sorry it had to be like this, I'm sorry I couldn't have been there for you._

_It's too late for me, BUT there's hope for you. Outside this place. You need to get out as soon as you can. _

_You'll find a way. You're a smart kid. Get the Hell out and use your brains for something good._

_Peace._

_—__O'_

Lewis shut the textbook and placed it back on the shelf. He pondered Oliver's scribbled words, obviously written before his long recovery at the hospital. What did he mean, "get out"? Surely he didn't want Lewis to run away, or fracture every bone in his body by jumping into a dumpster. The only way "out" was to get adopted.

'Lewis! Dinner!' Mildred's voice called out from downstairs.

Startled, he began to put away his work on the automatic trampoline when he stopped. As he stared at the blueprints, he knew how he was going to get out.

It was a few weeks later when Mildred knocked on his door and peeked in to say, 'The Johnstons are waiting, Lewis.'

'Yeah I heard you,' said Lewis from where he stood on his desk chair, putting the finishing touches on the automatic trampoline, which to Mildred's surprise looked nothing like a trampoline but more like a slab of white plaster in a wooden frame.

'Well, are you coming?'

He gave a little tap to his plaster block and grinned. He spun around to jump to the floor and heaved his project into his arms. 'Yup!' He said about to run to the interview room.

'Wait, wait,' Mildred stepped in front of him, 'you're not about to bring that into the room with you, are you?'

'You said yourself that interviews are about presenting yourself to couples. Well this is me.'

'A slab of plaster?'

'I've tried tried the whole, smile, be polite and answer their questions routine. That's not who I am, not entirely. But my inventions—' He caressed the white block lovingly.

'D'you really think that's a good idea? After what you did to Mr Montgomery's hair?'

'I know, but this time, I have a plan. Please Mildred? I can do this, I promise.'

She frowned and she took a deep breath. 'Well, you _are_ a very smart kid... How could I say no?'

'Yes! Thank you!' he said as he ran to the interview room.

Out of breath, he stumbled as he entered, balancing his latest (rather heavy) invention in his hands. The two women seated at the table looked to him, startled, then to the big white thing in his hands. Lewis composed himself as he set the box on the table then sat opposite them.

Still catching his breath, he began with a friendly, 'Hi!'

The woman on the left, a bespectacled brunette in a green sweater, replied enthusiastically, 'Hello! You must be Lewis.' The woman to the right, a redhead in a pinstripe suit, stayed silent. The brunette elbowed the redhead, 'Say something.'

'Uh, hi.' She jerked her hand in a wave.

The brunette continued, 'My name is Maggie and this is my wife, Lucy. Don't mind her, she hasn't had her coffee yet.'

'Nice to meet you,' said Lewis eagerly trying to suppress his urge to get right to the point.

'So,' said Maggie, 'it says in your file that you invent things? That's cool.'

'Yes! I do!' He pulled the box to the centre of the table. 'This is my newest one, I call it "the automatic trampoline".'

'Uh, that's a trampoline?' said Lucy leaning close to it. 'Looks like a white brick. And aren't trampolines already automatic?'

'Wait 'till he explains it,' said Maggie.

'Yes, but not your standard kind. It's a solid polycarbonate material that expands with sudden rising temperature and becomes semi-gelatinous due to the heat-transfer of an impacting object coming from a high enough altitude that triggers an expansion of the molecules, thereby absorbing 2.5 quarters of its impact then returning back to solid as the bonds squeeze together again, which will cause the object to bounce upwards, though with only a quarter of it's initial velocity.'

The couple looked to Lewis with bewildered frowns. They blinked.

'I'm sorry,' said Lucy breaking the silence, 'I haven't set foot in a science class for twenty years.'

'I think I almost get it,' said Maggie, gesturing as she tried to find her words, 'it's like, a, a melting marshmallow...thing... D'you think you could repeat that a little slower?'

'That's alright,' said Lewis. 'I could go on and on but, as they say, pictures are a thousand words. How about a demonstration?'

'Ooo!' Maggie clapped her hands, 'Like a magic show!'

'I'd need to borrow an object, said Lewis. 'Something kind of heavy. At least 100 grams in matter.'

'Oh, hey, how about your Blackberry ™ ?' said Maggie pulling it out of Lucy's pant pocket.

'What? No! That's got my whole life!'

'Oh come on, it's just a cellphone. Besides, I'm sure it's safe right?' she said turning to Lewis. 'You've tested it?' He nodded. 'See? Have faith.'

Lucy looked to them both skeptically but seeing Maggie's hopeful expression, she acquiesced. 'Fine. Alright. What happens now?'

'Ok, you've got to stand up and drop it on a perfect right angle. And it has to be about...' he paused making calculations in his head, '2.5 decametres directly above the centre.'

She stood and positioned the phone. 'Like this.'

'No, it's gotta be higher,' said Maggie.'

'And maybe a few centimetres to your left.'

'I don't really know how high a decametre is,' said Lucy.

'Just raise it a foot higher,' said Lewis.

'Okay.' Lucy closed her eyes as she dropped the phone. It plopped on the still-solid white surface. 'Nothing happened.'

'You weren't holding it right,' said Maggie taking the Blackberry, here let me.

'No, I think we've seen enough,' said Lucy. 'Lewis, it's a _wonderful_... contraption. But, uh, we could always just have a, you know, normal conversation.'

'You're such a cynic. He said _two_ feet.' Maggie stood on her chair, phone in hand, poised to drop it.

'Uh, actually that might be too —' began Lewis but the phone had already impacted the surface. It launched backwards at an angle, shattering the left lens of Maggie's glasses and hitting her eye. She screamed while the phone crashed into the wall, pieces scattering over the floor.

'Im ok!' she said crouching down but slipped on a stray back panel of the phone. She fell to the ground with a thud and let out a moan, 'Ah! I think my ankle's sprained.'

It all happened so fast, Lewis scrambled over to her as Lucy was helping her up. 'Don't touch her!'

'I'm so sorry! This was never supposed to happen!' Maggie was cupping her hands around the assaulted eye socket beneath her shattered lens. Suddenly, Lewis noticed something roll towards his foot. His blood turned cold. 'Oh my God!' He started to cry, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Imsorryimsorry—'

'Don't worry, don't worry. It's just my glass eye,' said Maggie trying to stand, 'Agh!' she said falling back, 'Lucy can you hand it over?'

Lucy crouched down, one arm still supporting Maggie as she delicately plucked the eyeball from the floor. 'I told you, Margæry,' Lucy hissed to Maggie as if Lewis wasn't in earshot, 'some street urchin orphans aren't the answer.'

His heart fell, though he knew it wouldn't change anything at this point, he still pleaded his apologies.

Lucy interrupted him with a curt reply, 'Thank you, but we'd better get home.'

'It was nice meeting you, Lewis,' said Maggie sadly.

As they left through the hall, Lewis turned back to look at the damage. Scattered remains of Lucy's cellphone intermingled with glass shards from Maggie's lenses. He walked over, crushing glass beneath his shoes, and stared down at the "automatic trampoline". Some invention.

Nothing in his life was working, let alone any of his inventions. Seems he was only good at taking things apart. He picked up the slab of polymer and threw it against the wall. It bounced back onto the floor where it cracked, the remaining slab lying on its side.

He was a street urchin, he was a reject. Just like Oliver said, no one wanted him. He shuddered hearing Maggie and Lucy's voices down the hall as Mildred spoke to then in high-pitched apologies. It was no use, the sound of door slamming echoed through his ears. Even his own parents left him behind. _His parents._

Suddenly a thought struck him and he couldn't let it go_._

Lewis ran to Mildred's office. He closed the door and twisted the lock shut. He grabbed a chair and tilted its back underneath the door handle. His eyes zoned in on the filing cabinets. He opened every single drawer in the room, even resorting to picking the locked ones with stray paper clips and pins. Papers flew, files scattered. Photos, certificates, forms, letters, some so old they were carbon copies from a typewriter.

'Lewis!' called a voice. 'What're you doing?' Mildred's feet were visible from under the crack of the barricaded door. She began to knock, hard. The doorknob jiggled with desperation. 'Lewis, please! Come outside, it'll be alright!' She knocked and yelled once more but Lewis ignored her, continuing on his search.

He'd ravaged through the L's in the cabinet when he'd stupidly remembered the files would be sorted by surname. Fake ones. He'd found it, finally, in with the P's. Shuddering at the surname the judge must've given him as a joke, he slid it out from the drawer.

File in hand, Lewis sank to the floor, littered in a chaos of paperwork he barely noticed now that he'd set eyes on what he'd come for. His hands began to shake. Once opened, this file could never be closed, not really. The answers to the questions burning in his brain would stay with him forever from this point on. And he dreaded to know what it was but he had to.

Just like taking off a Band-Aid, he flipped the file open and forced himself to gaze at its contents.

Compared to the others', Lewis' folder was underwhelmingly thin. The first thing he saw was a birth certificate. His name printed at the top, assigned by strangers only because you couldn't legally exist without a name. His D.O.B. was March 19 1995 12:00 AM. His eyes were blue, hair blonde, and he was American. All this he knew, what he was looking for lay further, somewhere in the small pile of papers.

He flipped over to a series of stapled reports by Karen Schteiff, his social worker. They detailed Lewis' psychological profile, using a therapist's favourite words: "acting out", "projecting", "isolation", "compulsion", "deflection", etc. This he didn't really what to think about. He shuffled paper after paper until he found it, right at the bottom. It was a photocopy of Mildred's cursive script.

_April 7th, 1995_

_I found Lewis on the orphanage's doorstep. On the night of March 19th at around 5 AM, I heard a knock on the door. Worried it might be an intruder, I only opened the door enough to see what was outside. He was small enough to be a newborn, maybe even within the last week. He was wrapped in a moldy blanket and placed almost half-hazardly in a soggy cardboard box. There was no note of any kind and from what I could see, whomever left him had gone quickly. No sign at all of any parent or guardian._

The report went on to detail Lewis' unsanitary conditions, how neither the police nor the hospital could track down his mother, and why Mildred and the 6th Street staff were qualified and capable of taking him in. Lewis only skimmed the second half of the letter that ended in a flourish of Mildred's signature.

He leaned back against the cold metal of the filing cabinet. His heart pumped in his ears and his stomach felt heavy. These were not the answers he'd expected. He'd always assumed someone had seen his parents, met them. Maybe giving her son up for adoption was the selfless sacrifice of a woman with a terminal illness, like Marie Curie, she'd killed herself in dedication to a fatal discovery for science; maybe they'd died in some random, tragic accident; or even in the line of duty, taken out by enemy spies.

But not like this. Stuff like this wasn't supposed to happen in real life, people were supposed to _care_. They don't abandon their kids on purpose. But his parents did. Someone had brought him into the world, then had second thoughts. They'd walked up the stairs, in the middle of the night, and left him there in a box. Their lives now improved without his existence burdening them. Cowards.

He looked to Mildred's letter. He was thrown away, it was plainly written in under a paragraph like a weather report. His hands trembled as he crushed the paper into his fists then started ripping at its corners, shredding it across the floor.

Mildred's knocks were getting louder and louder until she burst in past the now broken door. A young volunteer Lewis didn't recognise watched from outside as Mildred ran to hug him, blotting out his view of the doorway. He cried into her wool sweater. Tears and saliva mingled as he began to have trouble breathing between sobs.

'It's ok, it's ok.' Mildred held him tight and rocked him back and forth. 'It's ok. I'm here. You're ok, Lewis. You're safe.'

'They didn't want me!' he blubbered, 'They left me, they hate me!'

'Shhhh-shh-sh. That's not true. You don't know that.'

'No one wants me, no one likes me!'

'No! Don't say that, don't even think it.'

'He was right! Oliver was right! No one wants us!'

Mildred, knowing now was not the time to argue, simply said, 'Shhh. It's ok, it's ok.'

'How could they? _How could they do that? _Who does that?

Now I'm trapped and I'll die alone, you'll kick me out too.'

'No I won't. No I won't, sweetie. You're right here, I've got you. You're safe. It's ok, it's ok.'

'I'm alone, I'm alone, I'm alone...' Lewis had never before said anything like that aloud but when the words rang in his ears, he knew they were true.

It was hours before Lewis finally tired himself out. Wrapped in a blanket, Mildred gave him water and offered what was left of dinner. Despite his stubborn mood, when it was laid before him, he gobbled the pasta up off the plate in a few bites.

He knew the others had been watching curiously from their corners. Volunteers, orphans, and full-timers alike. Lewis was too tired to worry himself with them as he climbed the steps up to his room.

Mildred tucked him in with a glass of water at his side table. She sat at the end of the bed and held a tight grip on his hand. In a quiet voice, she said, 'I love you Lewis. I do. I can't the way a parent would, but I think you're a brilliant, sweet and absolutely wonderful little boy,' then she added in a mumble, 'though you may be a too smart for your own good.' In the dark, Lewis could see her smirk. 'Anyone would be lucky to have you in their family and I'm sure it won't be long until someone realises that. If I could make that happen right away, I would. Until then, you just have to keep your head up and believe in yourself.' She stood to leave, patted his head and walked out. The door closed with a soft creak.

Lewis let his weight sink into the blankets. His eyelids got heavier and heavier, dreaming of rain, cardboard boxes, and a blonde Marie Curie carrying his infant self down the streets of Midtown.

After only a couple hours' sleep, Lewis' eyes were wide open. Without turning the bedroom light on, he snuck into the hallway with a blanket draped over his shoulders. Guided by the moonlit window, he made his way to the doorway that led to the roof. Up the stairs, and past the locked door (which he picked), he stepped out barefoot into the cool night air.

He walked along the rough asphalt pebbles and sat down next to one of the crates. He hugged the blanket to himself in the chilly air and looked to the moon. Was it the same moon his mother saw when she left him here in a box?

His way out wasn't through her, nor the Johnstons or the Montgomerys or Oliver or Rose or even Mildred. He would just have to keep trying until someone loved him enough to take home. Like Mildred said, he would keep his head up until then.

Lewis produced a pencil from his pocket and drew a single line on the side of the crate. The first in what would become an ever-growing tally chart.

A/N

Hellooooo FF dot net! Long time no see. I've gone MIA 50% because technology hates me and I no longer have a computer (most of my writing goes on paper and is then painfully transcribed via iPhone) and 50% because writer's block/paralysing perfectionism strikes again.

Thanks for the faves/follows. Special s/o to Nurfhurder for reviewing! (You should too, it's a very fun and simple activity for the whole family.)

Also: one really good movie about foster care that partially inspired this fic is Short Term 12, tragic and heartwarming and all that good jazz. Plus Brie Larson is in it.

Next chapter: _The Roommate: Lewis finds himself disoriented with the arrival of someone new at the orphanage._


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